He walked to my desk and set the folder down.
No small talk. No move to leave. He just stood there, waiting.
Posture perfect. But his gaze drifted past my face to the bookshelf behind me, as if this were nothing more than a trivial errand.
I looked up at him.
He didn't flinch. He even smiled—a smile with something unreadable beneath it.
Normally, when Mary sent documents like this—or had her secretary bring them—I'd glance at the total and sign. She handled HR and Finance. I'd always given her free rein.
But today, I picked up the folder. Opened it.
Page by page, I went through the list. Bonuses ranged from tens of thousands to a few hundred thousand—consistent with this year's performance.
Then I reached the last page.
My hand stopped.
Next to Dean Gilbert's name was a long string of digits.
Year-end bonus: $1,000,000.
And in the remarks column, a single line: Plus one company BMW 730Li.
One million dollars. A BMW 7 Series.
For an executive assistant who'd been here less than six months.
My eyes lingered on that number for two seconds. Then I looked up.
Dean was watching me. That faint smile had deepened, and something flickered in his gaze—impatience.
"Chairman Dickerson, is there a problem?"